Birds of a Feather
by tlyxor1
Summary: They meet at an ASL centre in Brooklyn, where they have both committed to learning Sign Language. Neither of them expect they'll fall in love, but then, no one ever really does. Clint Barton/Laurel Potter (fem!Harry). OOC. AU. Post Hogwarts. Pre-MCU.
1. Chapter 1

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Hawkeye, the Avengers, Marvel, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** They meet at an ASL centre, where they have both committed to learning Sign Language. Neither of them expect to fall in love, but then, no one ever really does. Clint Barton/Laurel Potter (fem!Harry). OOC. AU. Post Hogwarts. Pre-MCU.

 **Rating:** M for language, violence, character death, and adult themes.

 **Author:** tlyxor-1..

 **Chapter One**

 _1st September, 2002_

Clint picks up the basics of American Sign Language (ASL) rather easily. He's always been a quick study, and he's always been rather interested in languages besides. ASL is spoken with hands and facial expressions, but it's a language all the same, and Clint is intrigued despite himself.

Maureen, his social worker, rejoices in his interest, and runs with it. She organises ASL lessons a few subway stops away from his apartment, accompanies him to his first class in order to make sure he actually attends it, and then promises to meet him outside directly after he finishes for the evening.

Clint, long-suffering and far too tired to argue besides, relents with a beleaguered sigh and retreats into the ASL centre with a wave for the woman who lingers behind him.

Maureen's a pint-sized, well-intentioned force of nature, and although Clint's mostly existed in a depressed, apathetic haze since his return from the Philippines, she's somehow wormed her way under his skin, carved out a place for herself inside his heart, and vowed never to leave it. She's a life saver - in more ways than one - and quite frankly, Clint has no idea where he'd be without her.

That said, he's 22 years old, and perfectly capable of finding his own way home. He's got problems up to his armpits - anxiety and depression and PTSD up the wazoo - but he's been taking care of himself since he was 18 and fresh out of boot camp, and his newfound hearing impairment isn't going to change that.

Not if Clint can help it.

"Clint Barton?"

"That's me," Clint confirms. He suppresses the reflex to fuss with the hearing aids he's still not used to, and shakes the man's offered hand instead. "You are?"

"My name's Tate Greenwood. I'll be your instructor for this course."

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Tate replies, "I just wanted to welcome you to the centre. Take a seat anywhere, and just let me know if you have any questions. There aren't many of us in this class, so it shouldn't get too overwhelming, but if it does, just step outside for as long as you need. No stress, all right?"

Clint nods his understanding, uncertain if he ought to be relieved or disgruntled by the courtesy. "Thanks."

"No problem," Tate answers, and then wanders off to greet someone else.

Meanwhile, Clint drops into a seat beside the only other twenty-something present. She's striking, with a heart-shaped face and a mane of thick sable curls. Her peaches and cream complexion is clear, off-set by her phenomenally green eyes, and Clint can't remember the last time he's ever been instantly attracted to someone.

More than her physical appeal though, Clint can feel his magic drawn to her own, and the sensation is intoxicating. He's heard of complimentary magic, of course, but with his luck, Clint has never dared to dream he would ever experience it himself.

Clint is suddenly aware, painfully, of the fact he hasn't shaved in three days, that he hasn't combed his hair, that he's dressed in a pair of old, worn, faded jeans and a 'Nirvana' T-shirt that's seen better days. He's clean, at least, but regardless, the archer can't imagine he leaves a decent first impression.

Clint's not accustomed to being self-conscious. His time at Carson's had killed any sense of shame or modesty in him, and after performing for a crowd in nothing but sparkly purple spandex, there haven't been a lot of outfits that have actually managed to leave him feeling insecure about himself. Until now, that is. .

"Hello," she greets him. She signs as well, and the gesture is awkward, uncertain, and Clint's glad he's not the only new kid on the block, so to speak. He returns the greeting, a little awkward himself, but it makes her smile, and her expression is contagious. "My name is Laurel."

She finger spells her name, L-A-U-R-E-L, and Clint's attention is caught up, briefly, in the motion of her hands. Her fingers are long and slender, her palms small, the skin scarred and calloused. Her nails are short but manicured, the chipped lacquer a bold, bright orange. Her ink-stained hands tell a lifetime of stories, and Clint is more curious than he should be.

"I'm Clint," he answers, and finger spells his own name, "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she answers. Her smile is a flash of white teeth between chapped lips, and Clint's charmed by the brief glimpse of dimples in her cheeks.

"Is this your first ASL lesson?" He asks.

"Yes," she confirms with a nod of her head, "Is it yours?"

"It is," Clint answers, "I figure I won't always be able to depend on the hearing aids, so…"

It's a difficult pill to swallow, all things considered. Clint's not at all prepared to embrace Deaf culture, not ready to accept the fact that his hearing is more or less shot to shit, but he's also practical. He'll need the ASL one day, and it's better to learn it when he actually has the time and opportunity to do so, rather than pass it over and regret his decision later.

"Make's sense," Laurel acknowledges. She doesn't pry, doesn't submit to the curiosity he can see in her viridian eyes, and Clint is grateful. It's been over half a year, but he's still not ready to talk about it. Clint's not sure he'll ever be ready for that. "I've always been interested in languages, and I've actually decided to go back to school to become an interpreter. I thought ASL qualifications would be a great addition to my resume."

"Do you know any other languages?"

"A few," she hedges, curiously shy.

"Other than English, I'm fluent in seven," Clint admits. He tries not to, but he's pretty sure he sounds boastful, but it's an accomplishment Clint's rather proud of. He doesn't know many people (re: anyone else) who can speak, understand, read, and write in eight different languages.

"You've got me beat, then," Laurel smiles, laughing sheepishly, "Other than English, I'm fluent in six."

Tate calls their small group to order before Clint can ask about what languages she speaks, and starts off their class with a round of introductions. Besides Clint and Laurel, there are only six other students, and all things considered, Clint doesn't hate the lesson that follows. It's a little dull, because it covers the alphabet Clint's already learned, but between practising his letters backwards and forwards, fast and slow and fast again, he and Laurel talk, and laugh, and talk some more.

It's the most fun he's had in ages, and Clint almost regrets when the lesson eventually draws to a close. It's sundown at that point, but New York City is predictably bustling, and Maureen awaits him out the front of the building. She's smoking a cigarette, hunched against the evening chill, but she has a smile to spare for Clint, and an even brighter one for Laurel.

Introductions are made, awkward and stilted, and Clint briefly regrets not protesting Maureen's babysitting routine earlier.

"Maureen's my social worker," Clint explains.

"Occasional life coach," Maureen interjects blandly. Even as Laurel grins, humoured, Clint pretends not to hear her.

"She works with the Department of Veterans' Affairs."

That leads into a brief discussion about their respective jobs, wherein Clint learns that Laurel's a nurse at Brookdale, Laurel learns that Clint's been working as a part-time mechanic since his return to Brooklyn, and they both learn that Clint is, miraculously and bafflingly, one of Maureen's easier clients.

It's a pleasant discussion, in all, but they eventually head their separate ways, and Clint can't decide if he's ridiculous for already anticipating the moment where he can see Laurel again. He's not about to ask Maureen, of course, who looks pleased as punch at Clint's apparent strides towards socialising, but Clint's pretty sure the woman can see right through him, anyway.

"You should ask for her number, next time," Maureen advises.

Clint shrugs. "Maybe."

As they approach the subway, Maureen doesn't press the issue. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"I did," Clint acknowledges, swallows his pride, and adds, "Thanks for organising it."

Maureen smiles, brief, but genuine. "It was my pleasure, Clint."

They part ways when they reach the platforms, and Clint boards his train with a weary sigh. He'd enjoyed his time at the ASL centre, but he can't deny that all the excitement (relatively speaking) has left him drained.

There's a certain irony there - he'd once relished being surrounded by people, after all - but he's a far cry from the enthusiastic, impressionable boy of his childhood, and the last three years of active combat would be enough to change anyone. Clint, who sometimes feels as though he's been shattered into so much dust, and then remade into something wholly different, damaged and tarnished, is no exception.

That said, Clint is finally ready to move forward with his life, to move beyond all the hurt and pain in his past. Laurel Potter may or may not be a step in the right direction in that regard, but as Clint disembarks the train at Bed-Stuy, he willingly acknowledges to himself that, yes, he's very much interested in finding out.

And - just maybe - he'll wind up all the happier for it.

 **Author's Note:** Yes, yet another project. What am I doing, right? I ask myself that every time I start a new story…

So, I got a bit tired of the teen stories I've been working on. I wanted to write something about adults with adult issues, and yeah, this happened. I'd probably work on Code of Conduct (my other Clint/fem!HP fic), but, at present, the muse is still nonexistent with that one. Sigh.

Anyway, what do you guys and gals think? Leave a review, let me know? Otherwise, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Hawkeye, the Avengers, Marvel, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Two:**

 _1st September, 2002_

When Laurel reaches her apartment, her skin still vibrates with the sensation of Clint's magic against her own. She's fairly certain she's drunk on the feeling, giddy and light-headed, and she relishes in it.

Never, in all the years Laurel's known about complimentary magic, has she ever dared to dream that she'd experience it herself. She'd learned from an early age that nothing is ever so easy, that even love comes with dedication and commitment and effort, and at the end of the day, does she really want to spend her life waiting for something that may never happen? No, no she does not.

And yet, despite not searching for it - not even hoping for it, in truth - Laurel's encountered a man whose magic compliments her own, and it's a hetty feeling.

Clint Barton isn't her soulmate, of course. SHe's not going to fall head over heels for him overnight, and they're not going to ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after.

Life, unfortunately, doesn't work that way. If it had, she'd have accepted Cedric Diggory's marriage proposal in July of 1998, and she'd not still be picking up the pieces of her tattered heart, broken and scattered after her years as a student of Hogwarts, and all of the trials and tribulations she'd endured therein..

Rather, In Clint, Laurel has the potential of gaining a partner, a lifelong companion who would know and understand her like no other. It doesn't necessarily imply a romantic relationship, but as far as documentation goes, it seems _most_ magical compatibility matches tend to go that way. Also, in theory, Clint isn't the only person out there with a personality, with experiences and ideals and magic that reflect her own, but it's exceedingly rare to find _one_ person who fits that mould. To find another is practically unheard of.

In saying that, the fact Laurel's found Clint is a reality she can barely comprehend. After everything, however, it's a welcome one. She's tired of being alone.

Inside her flat, Laurel proceeds with her usual sweep, ensuring none of the entrances to her apartment have been disturbed. The place is warded to the teeth, and there's a non-magical security system besides, but old habits die hard, and after the last (and only) time, Laurel is never again going to be attacked in her own home. Not as long as she can do something about it.

Satisfied with her security, Laurel gets changed into comfortable clothes, and wanders into the kitchen in want of sustenance. She's prepared a few days' worth of lasagna to eat at her discretion, and it's one such serving she helps herself to now, accompanied by a salad, a couple of slices of (fresh) garlic bread, and a glass of Chianti. It's Winky's contributions, the complimentary sides and wine, but Laurel can't deny they go well together, and thus she doesn't hesitate to enjoy them.

"Winky, you always know how to make a meal delicious. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Mistress is too kind," Winky squeaks.

"And you're far too modest," Laurel answers fondly. It's an old conversation between them, but one that always makes Laurel smile, "But I do mean it, Winky. Thank you for everything."

"It's Winky's honour to serve, Mistress."

Winky clears away Laurel's used dishes, and retreats to the sink in order to wash them. As she does so, Laurel meanders towards her living area, flicks on her radio to an Easy Listening station, and then approaches her landline. It's dark out now, the moon and stars obscured by New York CIty's light pollution, but it's not too late to make a call, and it's never too late to contact her best friend.

Technically, Sharon Carter is her second cousin. Laurel's maternal grandmother, Elizabeth,, and Sharon's grandfather, Joseph, were siblings. They'd grown up as sisters, however, courtesy of their Great Aunt Peggy, and the rest, as the saying goes, is history. -

Laurel's brought from her reverie as the phone starts to ring, because as per usual, Sharon is quick to answer.

"Hey, you," she greets. There's a smile in her voice, and Laurel relaxes at the sound. Sharon's sounded so tired as of late, run ragged at the SHIELD Academy based in Quantico, but it's good to know that she's at least happy.

"Hey," Laurel answers, "Are you busy?"

"No," Sharon replies, "I just left the gym, actually. I was just on my way to the mess hall. You've got perfect timing, as always."

Laurel's tone is droll. "I try."

Sharon huffs a laugh through the phone line. She's using an American accent again, and Laurel marvels at her cousin's ability to keep it consistent. "How are you, anyway? How did the ASL class turn out?"

"I'm all right. I just finished my first week back at school. It's a little jarring. I'm one of the youngest people in my course, but so far, so good."

"And everything else?" Sharon prods.

"It's good," Laurel answers, nodding to herself, "I enjoyed the ASL class. I have a good feeling about it."

She considers, briefly, mentioning Clint, but thinks better of it. Laurel would never hear the end of it, otherwise, and she would rather do without the added pressure. Besides, it's not as though there's much to tell.

"I'm glad." Sharon's entirely genuine, of course. SHe's always encouraged Laurel in everything she does, and the witch has no idea where she'd be without her. "How's work?"

They chat briefly about Laurel's job, about her colleagues and a few memorable patients she's encountered recently. They chat, also, about Sharon's experiences at the academy, some of the personalities she's crossed and the challenges she's faced as a woman, as a blonde (of all things), as a field agent hopeful. She's been careful not to mention her relation to their Great Aunt Peggy, but there have certainly been questions, muttered insinuations about nepotism and the like, and it hurts.

Sharon tries to hide it from Laurel, of course, but they've known each other for as long as they both can remember, and Laurel can see right through her.

"I'm sorry," Laurel sighs, regretful, "Maybe I should have come with you."

Laurel had never cared much for combat, or violence in general. She'd seen the necessity of it, certainly, and courtesy of her Aunt Peggy, she had even learned what she needed to in order to survive. She had implemented those skills during the second Blood War with a brutal, ruthless sort of efficiency, and had done so with the skill and finesse that had come with over a decade of training. In saying that, however, Laurel had not enjoyed it, or relished in it, or even thrived in that sort of environment. As such, as a teen, she'd never considered a martial career for her future, and in the years since then, that had not changed.

For her best friend though…

"You'd hate it here," Sharon counters.

"Maybe, but at least I'd have your back. Besides, SHIELD needs nurses too."

"Don't worry, Lori. I can handle it."

"Of course you can," Laurel agrees sincerely, "You'll just have to prove them all wrong."

Sharon's voice is feeble on the other end of the line. "Piece of cake, right?"

Laurel smiles. She wishes Sharon could share in her confidence. "Exactly."

Sharon sighs wearily. "I'll try."

Laurel clears her throat, and affects her best Yoda impression. "No! Try not. Do. Or do not; there is no try."

Without fail, Sharon starts to laugh. She's watched 'Star Wars' as often as Laurel, perhaps more so, and they've both quoted it more often than either would care to admit, but Laurel's impressions never fail to bring a smile to Sharon's face. This time is no exception.

"God, I love you," Sharon says fondly, "Thanks for cheering me up. I needed that."

"Anytime," Laurel answers, "I'm just a phone call away."

They chat until Sharon's joined by a couple of her fellow trainees, and Laurel hangs up with the promise to catch up soon. She settles back against her couch as she does so, summons the TV remote into her hand, and flicks the television on to an episode of 'The Simpsons'. It's easy and mindless - white noise if she's being charitable - and while it plays, Laurel occupies herself with the organisation of her mind, the reinforcement of her mental defences, and with an internal reflection of her last three days, spent primarily in classes.

It's been a good week, all things considered. Her meeting with Clint aside, she's excited to start grad school, and in particular, to embark on her first steps towards a career as a Translator..

It's a job prospect that resonates with her in a way Nursing never has, being able to bridge gaps between cultures and communities and perhaps even countries. Ideally, she'd like to work for the United Nations, or perhaps the International Confederation of Wizards, or perhaps even Doctors Without Borders, where she can put all of her hard earned, non-combative skills to good use..

In truth, Laurel can't remember the last time she's been so excited for her future. It doesn't matter that it's just a daydream at this point, or that she's got at least two years of hard work ahead of her before she can even _consider_ the UN or the ICW or MSF* as a valid career option for her. Rather, she savours in her excitement, and dares to hope that, just maybe, her daydream might come true.

 **End Notes:**

MSF* - Médecins Sans Frontiers - An international humanitarian non-governmental organisation best known for it's work providing medical aid to developing countries, and nations impacted by war. 'Doctors Without Borders' is what it's called in English.

 **Author's Note:** Can I just say wow? I did not expect such a positive response to last chapter. Thanks so much.

I've spent far too long obsessing over this chapter. I'm not completely satisfied with it, but I think this is going to be the best it's going to get. I tried to keep Laurel's character consistent throughout the chapter, which is a little difficult when I'm writing someone with mental health issues up to her armpits (I mean, let's be real, guys), but I'm not sure how successful I've been. Thoughts?

Anyway, hope you guys have a fabulous weekend, and welcome to Spring/Autumn, depending on which hemisphere you're in. Until next time, -t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Hawkeye, the Avengers, Marvel, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Three:**

 _2nd September, 2002_

Harold Barton was an angry drunk, haunted by the ghosts of Vietnam, and tortured by the memory of the family he'd left behind long before. He'd been a terrible, violent husband, and about as competent a father as he was a spouse. He ruled his home with a cruel, iron fist, and until the day Harold died, Clint had lived in undiluted, unabashed fear of him.

In contrast, Aurora Barton was a beautiful, resilient woman with the loveliest voice and the gentlest hands. She'd taught him French, had sung him songs and told him stories, and she had been Clint's favourite person in the entire world.

That aside, his mother was also intelligent, resourceful and subtle in ways Clint, at age six, had never noticed or understood. As an adult, however, Clint couldn't deny that whatever Aurora Barton's tactics, they were exceedingly effective. Harold had never discovered the individual Gringott's trust vaults she'd set up for Clint and Barney, had never discovered the fortunes she had lying therein, and had ensured that whatever happened, Clint - and only Clint - would receive access to his as soon as he reached his age of majority.

Clint, fortunately, had not immediately spent it all. He'd learned the value of saving over the years, and in the care of Derek Bishop, his foster carer turned adoptive father, he'd learn to respect and appreciate the concept of long-term investments. Moreover, at 18, the thought of financial stability had appealed to the orphan turned carni turned foster child immensely.

Clint had, therefore, made the decision to invest in the property market, and with Derek's guidance, Clint's decision had become a reality.

These days, he is now the proud owner of a twelve storey, recently refurbished apartment building in Bed-Stuy, with an apartment of his own, a consistent, steady income, and all without a debt to his name..

There are a few drawbacks, of course. There are property taxes, there are maintenance and insurance expenses, and there are the occasional tenants from hell. All things considered, however, the pros far weigh out the cons, and as such, Clint tries not to complain.

Sometimes, though, it's exceedingly tempting to.

"Is something wrong?" Derek Bishop asks. In his Armani suit and Italian leather shoes, he looks out of place on Clint's threadbare couch. He seems comfortable though, which is something, Clint supposes.

It's easy to forget that Derek Bishop hasn't always been filthy rich. He'd been in foster care too, once upon a time, but he'd earned himself a full scholarship to NYU, and then proceeded to work his ass off to build a life for himself and, later, the family he'd created with Eleanor. Essentially, he's a foster care success story, used by CPS to dazzle prospective foster parents, and also to receive more funding from the federal government. Naturally.

"A couple of tenants haven't paid their rent," Clint explains with a grimace, "I'll have to chase them up about it tomorrow, I guess."

,

"A landlord's work is never done," Derek quips wryly. he drums his fingers against his briefcase, casts his gaze across Clint's open-plan living area, and queries, "Do you have a minute, Clint? I wanted to talk to you about something."

"I figured."

Derek smiles, almost sheepish, but not quite. "Am I that obvious?"

Clint shrugs. "Bed-Stuy isn't exactly on your way home."

"Touché," concedes Derek. He straightens up in his seat, pulls his briefcase onto his lap, and fiddles with the combination lock. "You're aware I hired a Private Investigator to do some research into your family's background?"

"Yes," Clint confirms, hesitant. He's still not sure how he feels about the whole thing. He's a little curious, admittedly, but he's also afraid. What if he doesn't like what he'll find out? "Did they come up with something?"

"He did. A lot of information, it seems. I haven't looked at any of it, but the folder's rather thick, and Jones said it would make for some interesting reading. I thought it only appropriate I give it to you."

Derek produces a folder from his briefcase, fat with all the PI had uncovered, and settles it on the coffee table. Clint eyes it warily, uncertain if he's prepared to uncover all the ghosts that lie within, and makes no move to reach for it.

"Thanks," Clint acknowledges, "I'll be glad to get some answers, I think."

"Take your time," Derek advises. Apparently, Clint's an open book, because his foster carer turned adoptive father can see right through him. "The file's not going anywhere."

Clint purses his lips, eyebrows furrowed, but nods his acknowledgement. "I will."

He wonders, sardonically, if this is what cowardice feels like. It's just words on paper, perhaps a few photographs, and Clint can't bring himself to look at even a single page. The very thought floods him with an indisputable, inexplicable sense of panic.

Derek claps Clint on the shoulder, simultaneously encouraging and supportive. He offers Clint a smile, sympathetic and comforting, but he doesn't pursue the conversation further. Instead, he orders some pizza to share and helps himself to the fridge - and to the beers therein - and they settle in to watch a an unremarkable movie on Clint's battered television.

It's different, this new, post-military dynamic of he and Derek's relationship, but as Clint is caught up on the goings-on of Eleanor and Kate - his adoptive mother and sister, respectively - and gently quizzed about his own life, Clint can't say the change bothers him. It's nice, to be recognised and treated as an adult by someone who has, arguably, seen Clint at his adolescent worst. But then, seven years is a long time, and Clint's come a long way from that broken kid in the hospital room.

Derek straightens up from his slouch as the credits begin to roll. He checks his watch, smiles ruefully, and informs Clint, "I'd better go."

"Sure, I'll walk you down." Derek doesn't say a word, but he doesn't look impressed. Clint shrugs, defensive. "Do you want to tempt fate?"

Bed-Stuy isn't exactly safe, but Clint's earned himself a certain degree of immunity from the usual suspects. He's acquired something of a reputation as a decent, respectful landlord, and combined with the fact he's already shown off his ability to kick ass when the situation warrants it, most of the trouble makers keep their distance.

Those who don't quickly learn to do the same.

Derek, however, is a middle-aged white guy in an Armani suit, with a fancy car and no apparent means of defence. He represents everything the general population of Bed-Stuy isn't, and therefore, he's easy pickings. Quite frankly, Clint has no desire to see the man get mugged, stabbed, or worse.

Derek sighs, resigned. He's proud, but he isn't an idiot. "Guess not."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Clint retrieves his keys and slips into a pair of sneakers, and follows the man out of his apartment. He locks the door behind him, and they walk out of the building in an easy, companionable silence. It's broken as they reach Derek's car.

"Are you coming to dinner on Sunday night? Kate's been pestering."

"I'm sure I'd never hear the end of it if I don't," Clint counters wryly, arms crossed over his chest. He's painfully aware of the eyes watching them, and as the back of his neck prickles under their scrutiny, Clint longs for the familiar weight of his bow. "I'll be there."

Derek smiles, pleased. "I'm glad. We've missed you at home."

Clint grimaces, chagrined and guilty. "Sorry."

"You've been struggling," Derek reasons, "We understand. Just know you're always welcome."

Clint doesn't pull a face at the reminder of his 'struggles', but it's a near thing. In the face of his hearing loss and all that's come with it, he's spent the last seven months or so vacillating between helpless rage and a deep, fathomless despair. As is, Clint's barely treading water in a tumultuous sea of grief, and he doesn't need or appreciate the reminder that, in fact, he's not okay..

The accompanying offer of home, however…

He manages a smile. "Thanks."

Derek claps Clint on the shoulder once more, gets into his car, and drives away. Under the glow of a street lamp, Clint watches until he's out of sight, and then returns to his apartment.

There, the manila folder taunts him, seemingly innocuous, and Clint avoids it like the plague. He's not sure what he'll find inside it, but whatever it is, it'll keep for another day.

In the meantime, Clint busies himself with tidying up the mess from dinner, and once he's done, he locks up, and readies himself for bed. He doesn't imagine he'll get much sleep - between regular bouts of insomnia, and his usual mixed bag of nightmares, proper rest has become something of a rare commodity - but he's certainly going to try. It'll be a long night, otherwise, and Clint's grown rather tired of those.

With low expectations, Clint sighs as he removes his hearing aids, and around him, the world grows quiet. He flicks off his bedside lamp, makes himself comfortable in his bed, and waits for sleep to pull him under.

It takes longer than he'd like.

 **Author's Note:** I wonder if I should add a disclaimer that all the mental health issues I'm writing about are from personal experience (even the sensory loss, though mine is visual rather than auditory), and none of the academic or professional variety.

Except regarding PTSD, in which case, yes, research was done.

I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew. This story's kind of tough, but I find I'm enjoying the challenge. That said, feedback, please?

Also, Marvel wiki says Clint's hair is brown. I've read fics where his hair is blonde. As I said though, I'm blind, so I can't resolve this quandary. Can someone let me know which he is, please? Thanks.

Anyway, hope you've all had a super week. Until next time, -t.


	4. Chapter 4

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Hawkeye, the Avengers, Marvel, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Four:**

 _8th September, 2002_

Laurel's last class of the week draws to a close with little fanfare, and it's with a grateful sigh that she begins to pack up her things. She enjoys her course, without a doubt, but she's spent the last three days on campus, and she's grown a little stir crazy. Moreover, she's spent the last six hours anticipating her ASL lesson that evening, and Merlin help her, but it's not for the Sign Language.

If the girls of Gryffindor House could see her now…

Laurel rolls her eyes, self-deprecating, and acknowledges to herself that, yes, she really needs to get a grip. Attractive he may be, with magic that compliments her own, but Clint Barton is still mostly a stranger, and she can't - _won't_ \- get ahead of herself.

With that in mind, the Hogwarts alumna determinedly doesn't spend her train ride to Brooklyn imagining how her next meeting with Clint will go, and instead valiantly occupies herself with the readings she's been assigned that week. It's not the most interesting material, but it's productive and keeps her mind busy, and that's about all Laurel can really ask for..

Nevertheless, she's still grateful to reach her stop, and also to exit the claustrophobic confines of the underground train station. She doesn't love the New York subway system as her standard mode of travel, but apparition is rather frowned upon in most major cities, and she's never been much of a fan of it, besides. Hence, the subway, because needs must, and cars are impractical.

It's as Laurel reaches the sidewalk, the afternoon sun warm on her face, that another train pulls up in the station below. As it does, Clint's magic brushes against her own, an inexorable, static hum beneath her skin, and Laurel, uncertain, decides to wait where she is.

It doesn't take Clint long to reach her, and there's an open, honest smile on his face as he does so. He's dressed in jeans today, paired with a sleeveless tee that shows off his delightful arms, and Laurel, in a sudden bout of social awkwardness, has no idea what to say.

"Hi," Clint takes the initiative, and wryly adds, an ironic twist to his smile, "Fancy seeing you here."

"Hi," Laurel echoes, and finger spells along in Sign. She can't suppress her smile for the life of her. "What are the chances? How are you?"

"I'm good." Clint's seems quietly pleased as he says it, and Laurel privately wonders when he'd last meant it, "Yourself? How was your day?"

"I'm all right, and it's been good, so far."

They walk as they talk, headed to the ASL centre. The conversation between them is almost mindless, idle chatter about their respective weeks, and Laurel quickly discovers that it's rather difficult to focus on what she's signing as they move along. Clint doesn't seem bothered though, able to follow the thread of conversation with use of his hearing aids, with her rudimentary signing skills, and with his apparent and uncanny ability to read her lips.

It's easy to feel self-conscious under his intent gaze, though there isn't anything particularly licentious about his current attentions. Rather, he looks at Laurel with eyes that seem to see right through to her bones, sharp and clear and far too pretty to be real besides. She wonders what he perceives about her, beyond her physical appearance, but she doesn't have the courage to ask. In truth, she likely never will.

"What are your weekend plans?" Clint queries.

"I've got work Saturday to Monday, six to six," replies Laurel, "So, yeah, that's about it."

They reach the ASL centre as he asks, and Clint holds the door open for her with an exaggerated flourish. She laughs at the gesture, charmed despite herself, and when she looks back at him, Clint wears a small, albeit pleased, smile on his face.

Just for a moment, Laurel is struck speechless by the sight of him. His hair looks golden in the afternoon sunshine, his eyes curiously silver. He's not remarkably tall, but he holds himself with a straight back and shoulders squared, and there's something captivating about the image.

The sensation is fleeting. She's blocking the doorway, and as she looks away to see where she's going, Clint shifts, and by the time Laurel looks back at him, the moment is gone. Clint's no less handsome, of course, but the sight of him isn't as it was, vaguely ethereal and the like.

She's still attracted, however.

"And you've got classes from Tuesday to Thursday?" Clint clarifies. They settle in the reception, seated side by side in a couple of chairs there, and Tate finishes up a youth class in a room behind them.

"Not all day, but yes, that's right." Laurel confirms.

Clint looks genuinely pained, and Laurel smothers a grin behind her hand. "That sounds… exhausting."

"I guess it is," Laurel concedes, "It's not too bad though. I like to keep busy."

"I guess I can understand that. I don't really do well without something to keep me occupied."

"What do you do to pass time, then?"

"I have work a few times a week, so there's that, but I also do some volunteer work at the VA. Just admin work; nothing too exciting. Other than that, I don't know, I'm a big fan of archery, and I spend a lot of time working out."

"Archery?"

"Yeah," Clint confirms, "I started when I was eight, and I've never really stopped. What about you; any favourite hobbies, interests, activities?"

"Oh, um, quidditch, I guess. Just flying in general, really."

"Can't say I've ever tried it," Clint admits.".

Laurel gapes incredulously. She's aware she's doing it, but she can't seem to stop herself. "You've never been flying?"

"Not on a broom," Clint shrugs, nonchalant. "I never attended one of the magical schools, and my tutor didn't have a broom to teach me. By the time I could buy my own, I lived here, and broom flight's banned in the City, so…"

"So you've never had the opportunity," Laurel concludes, nods to herself, and decisively informs him, "We'll just have to rectify that."

Clint laughs, surprised and doubtful. "How?"

Laurel doesn't get a chance to answer as, behind them, Tate's classroom is vacated by a small cluster of teenagers. They're all signing, rapid and animated as they walk towards the door, and Laurel envies them their fluency. She knows, of course, that it'll take time for her to reach that point, but Laurel's never exactly been known for her patience.

"Clint and Laurel, hey," Tate greets them, "You're early. How are you guys?"

They walk with Tate into their classroom, and chat with him briefly by the front of the room.

As they do, Laurel finds that Tate's a decent sort, with an easy, affable manner, quick to laugh and quicker to smile. It's no wonder that the reviews say he's an excellent teacher.

Before long, others start arriving, and Tate excuses himself to greet them. As he does so, Laurel and Clint return to their seats from their first lesson, but they don't take up their conversation from earlier. Instead, they take turns attempting to finger spell the alphabet backwards, as they'd done the week before, with mixed results. Laurel's hopeless, Clint not quite as much, but neither of them have any qualms about laughing at themselves, and it is therefore an easy, entertaining way to pass the time that remains before their lesson.

Before long, however, Tate calls them to order, and, quieting, Laurel and Clint settle in to learn all they can from him. In doing so, the class flies by.

-!- -#-

 **AUthor's Note:** big thanks to everyone who answered my question from last chapter. I really appreciate it, because it's something that's baffled me for quite some time. Your feedback and encouragement, also, really means a lot. Nice to know I'm doing something right.

Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. It's short, I know, because Clint, post their ASL lesson, didn't want to cooperate. Next chapter, guys and gals. Until then, -t.

ps. I've been toying with the idea of a fem!HP/Daredevil crossover, wherein fem!HP was blinded in the Chamber of Secrets, but I wonder if it's too much of a stretch to pair her with Matt. Thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Hawkeye, the Avengers, Marvel, or Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Five:**

 _September 8th, 2002_

"Do you have any plans for tonight?"

Clint doesn't really plan to ask. Rather, it's an impulsive thing, brought on by the realisation that, actually, he really doesn't want to go back to his empty apartment. All that awaits him there is the file from Derek's PI that Clint still hasn't looked at, a couple of hours of updating his rental ledger, and a late marathon of 'Law & Order: SVU'.

That said, it's no less nerve-racking for the lack of mental preparation, and for Clint, the time it takes for Laurel to respond seems to last an age.

"No, I don't have plans," Laurel answers. She brushes a stray lock of hair behind a pierced ear, seems to hesitate briefly, and then shoulders on, "Did you want to do something?"

"I was going to grab some dinner before I head home," Clint explains. Restlessly, he crosses his arms over his chest, drops them at his sides, and then shoves them into the front pockets of his jeans, "I figured, if you're free, maybe you'd like to join me?"

"That sounds nice," Laurel acknowledges, a smile on her face. He's charmed, once more, by the dimples in her cheeks. "I'd love to. Did you have a place in mind?"

Clint laughs, sheepish, and palms the back of his neck with a rueful grin, "Not really? I'm not too sure what's around here, actually, but I figure there's got to be something."

Barring his new ASL lessons, Clint's never had much reason to visit Dumbo, hence his unfamiliarity with the neighbourhood. He's always game to try new things though, food in particular, and if it gives him the opportunity to better get to know Laurel?

Well, Clint's not going to complain. He's interested in her, and not solely because her magic resonates with his own, but also because she's attractive, intelligent, and confident. He's always been drawn to capable, independent women, and although he doesn't know her well, Laurel's circumstances - 22, working, studying, ex-patriot living alone in New York City - speaks volumes about her character, and in particular, about how well she can take care of herself.

"Shall we walk, then?" Laurel grins impishly, apparently unruffled by Clint's lack of forethought.

Clint nods, falls into step beside her as they meander away from the ASL centre, and replies, "Sounds like a plan."

In the evening bustle of commuters headed home, they don't speak much on their walk. They both agree to a small, brightly lit Mediterranean restaurant they encounter on their way, however, and once they're seated, they both settle in to take stock of their dinner options. It doesn't take them long, and soon thereafter, their orders are taken by their waiter.

In his wake, they're left with an appetiser of toasted sourdough,, hummus, and a couple of glasses of water.

"So, how long have you lived in New York?"

"I moved here in June, 1995," Clint replies, "I, ah, travelled a lot before that. In a circus."

Laurel pauses, her expression skeptical. "A circus?"

"Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders," Clint confirms, a sardonic smile on his face. He'd enjoyed his time there, and he appreciates all the skills he'd acquired therein, but he can't quite forget how that chapter of his life had ended. In fact, Clint doubts he ever will.

Laurel blinks, bemused, and sips at her water. "Why?"

Clint shrugs, nonchalant. "I don't really remember the details; just that my brother didn't get along with the adults at the Children's Home."

"It sounds like something out of a story."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, "Most people don't seem to believe me when I tell them."

"I can see why," Laurel acknowledges wryly, "It's a little… fantastical, I guess."

Clint shrugs. "No more than magic. Less, even."

"Touché," Laurel concedes with a nod. She chews a piece of bread slowly, her expression thoughtful, and then washes it down with another sip of water. "So, what did you do there?"

"Bit of everything," Clint shrugs, "Mostly archery, though. They liked my trick shots."

"You're a good marksman, then?"

"They used to call me Hawkeye." Clint's smirk is smug. There are few things about himself he's genuinely proud of, and at the top of that list is his aim. It had earned him a headlining show at Carson's, recognition and commendations in the US army, and it is perhaps his greatest talent. "I'm good."

"Hawkeye," she echoes, considers him briefly, and then nods to herself, "It's an apt moniker. I get the impression you don't miss much."

"I try not to."

There's a lull in conversation then, and Clint takes the time to enjoy the appetiser in front of him. He studies his surroundings as well, the other patrons, the wait staff, and Laurel herself. She seems content to let him, a small, private smile on her face, and Clint silently wonders about what she perceives in turn.

"How about you?" Clint queries, "What was your childhood like?"

"I grew up south of London, in a village called 'Little Whinging'. My Aunt and Uncle weren't the most pleasant of people, but my Great Aunt Peggy lived close by, and she kept them on a tight leash. Other than that, it was fairly unremarkable. I went to school, attended my extra-curricular activities, did my chores." Laurel shrugs, and there's a smile on her face, but it's entirely mirthless. "And then I went to Hogwarts."

Clint doesn't know a lot about the magical communities. He's spent most of his life in the non-magical world, visiting only to sit his ICW standard O.W.L and N.E.W.T exams, to sort out his inheritance at Gringott's, and most recently, to consult with a healer regarding the (mostly irreparable) damage to his ears. He's never had much of a reason to visit otherwise, or to learn about the history, the politics, the culture, or what have you, but he _has_ heard of Hogwarts.

"My mom went there," Clint says conversationally, "She used to tell me stories about it. I don't remember most of them, but I remember enough. She made it sound like something out of a fairytale."

"Yeah," Laurel acknowledges, "It was like that for me, too. For a while, anyway."

"But…"

Laurel contemplates her water, and Clint wonders if she's going to answer. "You know when you're little,and you look at the world around you, and no matter what, what you see is exactly what you get?"

Although she makes the effort to face him while she speaks, it's only then that Laurel makes eye contact with Clint, and he nods solemnly. There's a scar on his side that twinges with an old, phantom pain, and he knows precisely what she's talking about.

"Everyone spoke so highly about Hogwarts," she reflects, "They all said I'd have the time of my life. I think I loved it before I even stepped foot inside the castle. At least, I loved the idea of it."

"But it didn't live up to your expectations?"

Laurel laughs. It's a bitter sound. "It really, really didn't."

"I'm sorry." Clint doesn't know what else to say. What else _is_ there, though?

Laurel shrugs. "That's life, isn't it? It never turns out the way you expect."

"I guess not," Clint concedes.

She sighs and tugs roughly at a lock of her hair. "I'm sorry, for ruining the mood. I don't mean to be a wet blanket, really. Hogwarts is just… It brings back memories I'd rather forget."

"Don't worry about it," Clint replies. He tries to offer her a sympathetic smile, but he's not sure how effective it is. "We all have our demons."

"Quite," she smiles ruefully, and her gaze flickers towards her left, where earlier, Clint had noted the entrance to the kitchen, "It seems our food is ready."

Indeed, their waiter serves Clint's lamb cutlets and Laurel's chicken kebabs a few moments later, and they both embrace the distraction without reservation. As they do so, they're both careful to avoid other evocative topics of conversation, conscious that It's not the time - nor the place - for such matters.

In fact, if Clint is honest with himself, he'd actually prefer to avoid such conversation for as long as possible.

Communication, particularly with regards to personal feelings, has never been his strong suit. Not even Laurel, with her complimentary magic, can change that.

-!- -#-

Clint doesn't insist on walking Laurel home. It's a half hour, 1.5 mile hike between their respective apartment buildings, and although he's run far greater distances in far more strenuous circumstances, he doesn't actually _need_ to. Laurel has already asserted that she is entirely capable of taking care of herself, and quite frankly, it already feels enough like a date for a spontaneous, exceedingly informal invitation between mostly strangers.

Does it have to be planned and labelled to be considered a date?

Clint ponders this quandary on the train, seated beside Laurel. They've exchanged contact information, have already agreed to make plans to meet up in the week ahead, but they've spent the rest of the train ride in an easy, companionable silence, and Clint is entirely all right with that.

That said, they've just pulled away from Franklin Avenue, and Clint's pretty sure he has to say something before they reach his stop at Nostrand*.

"Thanks for joining me tonight," Clint starts, oddly tremulous, "I know it was short notice, but I enjoyed your company."

"Thanks for inviting me," Laurel smiles brightly, "And likewise. Should we make it a regular thing, do you reckon?"

Clint's resulting smile is soft, but no less genuine. "I like the sound of that."

"I look forward to it, then."

"Me too." He sighs. "I guess I'll see you at some point next week."

Clint stands, and braces himself against the back of his vacated seat to press a kiss to her cheek. The train pulls into Nostrand Avenue as he pulls away, and he offers her a brief wave as he approaches the door. "Have a good night."

"You too," Laurel softly replies. He sees it more than he hears it.

Clint disembarks, lingers until the train is out of sight, and then makes his way home in something of a daze. He can't wipe the smile off his face.

 **End Notes:**

\- * I can't guarantee the accuracy of the train information in this chapter.

 **Author's Note:** I'd like to reiterate that Clint isn't at all up to date with wizarding affairs in his own country, never mind those abroad. As such, he has no idea about the 'Girl Who Lived', and what have you. I vaguely addressed that lack of awareness in this chapter, but it'll be more overt in chapters to come. Hopefully.

So, most of you seem on board with the blind!HP/Daredevil crossover, though there were a few of you who thought it was something of a stretch (the blindness, not the pairing). Thanks for your honesty, either way. I'm not sure how it'll turn out (if it'll turn out), because at the moment, it doesn't want to be written, but I guess we'll see (no pun intended).

Anyway, you guys remember last weekend, when ff dot net was down for, like, 12 hours? I was lurking on one of the pages that was monitoring the site, and there was this place where you could comment, and people were losing it. I confess, I was one of them, but seriously, so entertaining. That said, happy weekend, and let's hope there isn't a repeat.

Thanks for all of your support. Until next time, -t.


	6. Chapter 6

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Six**

 _September 9th, 2002_

Laurel spends most of her Friday entrenched in studying. She's got homework, readings to do, projects to start, and if her years spent juggling her magical and non-magical educations have taught her anything, it is the ability to manage her time wisely.

It's not all work and no play, though. She naps after lunch, and spends an hour on Skype with Hermione. She and Clint text sporadically, as well, quizzing each other on nonsensical things like their respective pizza toppings of choice, whether or not they prefer cats or dogs, debating the merits of Law & Order vs CSI, and what have you, and it's _nice_.

It's restful, too… Until Dudley calls. It's three o'clock - eight o'clock in England - and Laurel knows before she answers that he's not going to have anything pleasant to say. They may have parted on civil terms, but Laurel and Dudley aren't friends. She'd spent 10 years being picked on by her cousin, the treatment blatantly encouraged by Dudley's disgusting parents, and that's not something Laurel will ever truly forget.

Subsequently, Laurel and Dudley are certainly not close enough to warrant a casual call across the Atlantic Ocean. Particularly since international calls are expensive, and if nothing else, her cousin is in his last year of university, and is therefore still living on a student budget.

"Dudley," Laurel greets him.

"Hi, Lori," Dudley sounds tired over the phone line, "Are you busy?"

"No. You caught me on my day off. Has something happened?"

"I'm not sure," Dudley admits, "I've been with Aunt Peggy all day today, running errands and whatnot."

"Really?" Laurel asks, bemused. Aunt Peggy usually harasses Director Fury to loan out some of his agents for things like that. Even then, such occasions a rare. Peggy Carter is proud, after all, and ferociously independent besides, and she hates to ask for help.

"Yeah, it surprised me, too," Dudley huffs a rueful laugh, but he sobers quickly. "Anyway, the reason I called is because most of our day was spent with a Neuropsychologist. They were testing for Dementia."

Aunt Peggy is 74 years old. Her hair is silver, and her skin is careworn, lined with wrinkles and age spots. She's fierce though, loud and gregarious and outspoken, and it's easy, sometimes, to forget how old she is. She was born in the aftermath of World War I, lived through the Great Depression and World War II. She's loved and lost, has raised three children into adulthood, has spent the last 15 or so years doting on her grandchildren.

That is, of course, when she hasn't been kicking arse for SHIELD, or kicking arse for Laurel, or just kicking arse in general.

"What did the doctor say?"

"They'll have to do more tests," Dudley answers, "Longer ones. There's nothing certain, yet, but it's not promising."

Laurel exhales, oddly speechless. In the hospital, and during the war, she's seen people receive bad news, seen people fall apart, or hold themselves together by force of will alone. She's seen them cry, seen them rage, seen them close themselves off completely.

Her job - and her involvement in the war - however, has never prepared her to receive news like this. She has no idea what to say.

"I'm sorry, Lori," Dudley says softly. It's uncharacteristic of him. "I know you two are close."

Aunt Peggy has been part of Laurel's life for as long as she can remember. She taught Laurel how to throw a punch, to shoot a gun, to drive. She was there when puberty struck with a vengeance, when Blaise Zabini broke her 13 year old heart, when Sirius died, when no one else understood why she'd said 'no' to Cedric Diggory. Aunt Peggy has been a mother, grandmother, and best friend all in one, and the prospect of losing her is one Laurel has refused to consider for as long as she's understood mortality, and in particular, the toll it takes on those left behind.

Not even magic can stop the hands of time, though.

"She didn't tell me."

"She probably doesn't want you to worry," Dudley reasons. "She asked me not to tell you or Sharon, but I couldn't do that to you. Not after…"

Laurel doesn't ask Dudley to explain. She's not actually sure what he's referring to, but honestly, she doesn't particularly care, either. It's probably that he just feels he owes her something after the hell he'd put her through when they were children, but in the grand scheme of things, it's not important. Their Aunt Peggy probably has Dementia, after all, and what is Dudley's guilty conscience to that?

"I'll tell Sharon," she says instead, and Dudley sighs a breath of relief.

"Thanks," he replies, "I wasn't looking forward to getting in touch with her."

"I wonder why," Laurel deadpans.

Sharon hasn't forgiven Dudley for his behaviour when they were younger. She didn't cop it as much as Laurel, but she _had_ copped some, and she'd also seen what he'd done to Laurel, too. She'd promised years ago that she'd never forgive him for it, and thus far, Sharon hasn't yet broken her promise.

On a somewhat related note, relations between Dudley's parents and Sharon's have chilled to glacial temperatures, and Laurel can't see them improving any time soon… Or ever. Not when Petunia and Vernon are as unpleasant as they've ever been, and not when their own son can barely stand them.

Dudley huffs a mirthless laugh. "Anyway, that's all I wanted to tell you, Lori. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

"It's fine, Dudley. Thanks for letting me know. It's… It sucks, but I appreciate it."

"All right, well I'll let you go. Take care, Lori."

"You too," Laurel replies. She hangs up before he does, and slumps against the back of her couch, and takes a moment just to breathe, to absorb what she's just learned, to collect herself before she bursts into tears.

Nothing is definite yet. There's no use crying prematurely.

That's what Laurel tries to tell herself, anyway. It takes only the thought of life without her outspoken, unapologetic Aunt Peggy, however, for the waterworks to start.

Laurel doesn't stop crying for a long time.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** Am I mean? Is this mean of me? I'm sorry for the wait. The muse took me elsewhere, university kicked my butt, and I was seriously discouraged because someone called Laurel a Potter Sue after, like, eight thousand words. _But_ , then I realised eight thousand words is seriously nothing and that's such a quick judgement but whatever, you do you, dude.

A short chapter to get back into the swing of things, but hopefully the next chapter - Clint's POV - will be longer.

Thanks for sticking around, guys and gals. Until next time, -t.


	7. Chapter 7

**Birds of a Feather**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or the Avengers. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Seven:**

 _September 12th, 2002_

The VA is fairly busy on Monday morning. The day prior had been the anniversary of 9/11, and the memorial seems to have dredged up a lot of ghosts for the local veterans.

Clint, whose demons have never left him, attends a group therapy session in the morning, and then spends a few hours behind the front desk, answering phone calls, logging visitors, making appointments. He volunteers there a few days a week, and between the administrative duties, his work at a garage in Bed-Stuy, his regular sojourns to a local MMA gym and his ASL lessons, he keeps himself busy, out of his apartment and out of his head.

For the time being, it's enough.

"How was your weekend?" Maureen asks him, propped against the counter, "Did you get up to much?"

"No," Clint denies, "Just maintenance issues in the building. I think I want to hire a couple of people. They can rotate shifts, or something. The amount of clogged drains I've had to deal with, not to mention the toilets…"

Maureen winces sympathetically. "If you want some ads in the paper,

"I'll let you know," Clint smiles gratefully, and takes note of Chester's arrival. He's another volunteer, in his mid 30's and at loose ends after his retirement, and in this instance, he's Clint's administrative replacement. He acknowledges the man with a nod, begins to gather up his things, and continues, "How was your weekend, though? You had a baby shower to attend?"

"My daughter's," Maureen confirms, "Her first baby. It's all very exciting."

"Are you looking forward to being a grandmother?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Maureen replies emphatically, "I've been waiting for this moment since the day my kids were born, I swear to God."

Clint huffs a laugh, and walks with Maureen out of the building. She produces a cigarette and a lighter out of nowhere, but she hesitates in lighting up. Clint lingers, because apparently, Maureen has more to say.

"How's that girl from your ASL class? Laurel?"

"We're still talking, if that's what you were wondering," Clint replies wryly, and Maureen shrugs, unabashed, "She works weekends, so I haven't heard much from her since Friday. She's okay though, as far as I can tell. Busy."

"I'm glad you two are talking," Maureen says, "You need to spend time with people your own age, not just your crotchety coworkers and an old bag like me. I worry about you, you know?"

"And I appreciate it," Clint acknowledges, and he means it. Maureen is overprotective and nosy, but she means well, and he'd needed her support when he'd returned to New York. He's self-aware enough to acknowledge that he'd been a mess - in many ways, he still is - but at the very least, he's no longer self-destructing, and he has his social worker and her unending tenacity to thank for it.

Maureen smirks. "I know."

"So modest," Clint jests.

"I do try," Maureen replies blithely. Clint grins despite himself, gives her a rueful shake of his head, and turns his gaze towards the nearest subway station. As he does, Maureen lights her cigarette, and says, "Take care of yourself, Barton."

"Likewise," Clint acknowledges. He shoves his hands in his pockets, "I'll see you around."

Maureen nods her agreement. "Count on it"

Clint nods his acknowledgement, and he walks away. He knows without turning back that Maureen watches him go.

-!- -#-

Before he heads home, Clint makes a detour to his local supermarket. He stocks up on a few groceries, food to last him a few days and whatnot, and then meanders home in the afternoon sunshine. It's a familiar, uneventful walk, but as Clint approaches his building, his attention is grabbed by an SUV parked by the curb. It's black, with tinted windows and it is notably new, and it stands out like a sore thumb in a street full of nondescript sedans and hatchbacks.

A man gets out of the driver's seat as Clint nears it, also incongruous in a crisply tailored suit and tie and polished leather shoes. He's fairly average-looking otherwise, with thinning brown hair and brown eyes, but Clint can see the outline of a gun beneath the man's jacket, notices the way the man takes stock of his surroundings as he approaches Clint, receives the impression that the stranger is far more than he seems,

"Clint Barton?"

"Who's asking?" Clint parries, cautious.

"My name is Phil Coulson, of Strategic Homeland Intervention: Enforcement and Logistic Division. I'm here to offer you a job."

Clint has heard of SHIELD, though he doesn't know much about it. Rumours, mostly, mentioned in passing by soldiers while on tour, but what he _does_ know is that it's an international organisation dedicated to the establishment and maintenance of global peace and security.

In theory, that is.

Admittedly, Clint hasn't thought a lot about it. What's yet another shadowy spy organisation among many, after all? That said, considering there is war in Africa and in the Middle East, political uprisings in South America, crime syndicates all over the globe, Clint is skeptical of the organisation's aims and efficacy.

Nevertheless, Clint doesn't dismiss him outright. He briefly considers it, but he opts not to. Dubious he may be, but he's also curious about what had brought SHIELD's attention to Clint, and in particular, what made them decide he would be a worthwhile asset to their organisation.

Clint sighs,already certain he's going to live to regret this, but all the same… "You'd better come inside."

-!- -#-

Clint's apartment isn't a mess, fortunately. His breakfast dishes are in the sink, and there's paperwork spread out across his coffee table, but as a general rule, he keeps his place clean, and it's fortunate he does so.

"Can I get you a coffee?" Clint offers,wandering into the kitchen to deposit his groceries on the counter. Coulson hovers in the empty space between the living room, kitchen, and dining area, and declines Clint's offer with a shake of his head.

"No, thank you. I can't stay long." He produces a thick looking envelope from within his suit jacket, slides it onto Clint's kitchen counter, and drums his fingers on top of it, "As I mentioned downstairs, I'm here to offer you a job with SHIELD."

"And what is this job?" Clint asks, "SHIELD is aware my hearing is shot to hell, yes? I imagine they have access to my service records."

"We are aware, yes, and we're willing and able to work with and around your hearing issues," Coulson replies, "And yes, SHIELD has access to your service records. We were quite impressed by your shooting scores."

"Ah, you want a sniper," Clint concludes. Wryly, he adds, "I should have known."

Clint's initial instinct is to refuse. He thought he'd left his days of shooting people - _killing_ people - behind him with his medical discharge, and he's not remotely thrilled by the prospect of taking up yet another sniper rifle.

But if it means resolving conflict, bringing peace to war-torn countries, helping people…

"Among other things," Coulson confirms. He doesn't specify those other things, though, and instead pointedly taps the envelope. Clint arches a quizzical eyebrow, "This contains your basic employment contract; Benefits, wages, and what have you. It also has my contact information."

"Get in touch with you when I have an answer?" Clint assumes.

"That's the idea," Coulson confirms.

"I'll do that, then," Clint acquiesces, "I'll need some time to think about it, though."

"Take your time," Coulson acknowledges. "Until then, I won't keep you."

Clint shows him to the door. "Thanks for delivering the job offer in person."

"I find I'm met with less skepticism this way," Coulson answers mildly. Clint huffs a laugh, and Coulson smirks. "I hope to hear from you soon, Mr Barton."

Clint nods his acknowledgement. "You will. I can't guarantee anything, though."

After a few more pleasantries, Coulson leaves, and Clint shuts his apartment door behind him. He locks it, slides the deadbolt in place, and takes a moment to absorb everything that had just taken place. When he does, he shakes his head with an incredulous laugh, returns to the kitchen, and unpacks his groceries.

Still vaguely numb by the entire encounter, however, serious consideration of the job offer from SHIELD will have to wait.


End file.
